


In the Chair by the Window

by xobands



Category: Bandom, My Chemical Romance
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Coffee Shops & Cafés, Coffee, Coffee Shops, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Fluff and Humor, Humor, M/M, and awkward, they're both adorable
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-13
Updated: 2015-04-13
Packaged: 2018-03-22 18:21:30
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,870
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3738706
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/xobands/pseuds/xobands
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Today your barista is:<br/>1. Hella fucking gay<br/>2. Desperately single</p>
<p>For your drink today I recommend:<br/>You give me your number.</p>
            </blockquote>





	In the Chair by the Window

**Author's Note:**

> Translated into Russian [here!](https://ficbook.net/readfic/6233009)

It began back in late November when a guy Frank has never seen before comes in and orders a simple medium black coffee and Frank almost forgets to give him his change because he’s never seen a human so stunning in his 22 years walking on Earth. Frank can’t pull his eyes away after he makes the drink and hands it to the guy, who avoids eye contact, turning around to fix up the coffee.

 

As of February, the guy (Frank learned his name is Gerard after cleverly realizing that he can literally just ask, with the excuse of using to call his order on the third day Gerard came, which was unusually busy) has come into the shop at some point between 9 o’clock and 11 o’clock every single morning that Frank works, sits in the same lonely, squashy chair by the window, and draws in a battered sketchbook anywhere from 15 minutes to 3 hours, black hair flopping around his face and his feet tucked under himself in a painfully adorable way.

 

On a particularly wet morning, a rotund man accepts his drink from Frank, and promptly settles himself into the corner armchair, _Gerard’s chair_. It’s not a particularly popular spot, since it’s very out-of-the-way, and there’s only one chair to the small table. Most customers come in in pairs or groups. Since Gerard started coming, Frank has never seen anyone else attempt to sit there. It’s practically sacrilege.  

“Hey,” Frank says quietly, poking his co-worker and good friend Ray in the side, “That guy’s in Gerard’s chair.”  
“What?” Ray mutters, focusing on the steaming milk he’s currently pouring.

Frank huffs, crossing his arms until Ray finishes the drink and then essentially pounces on him, scrabbling at his arm and pointing an accusatory finger across the shop.

“That guy’s in Gerard’s chair!” Frank repeats in a hiss, eyes throwing daggers.

“Who the hell is Gerard?” Ray asks spacely, shaking his friend off, taking the next order and beginning to fill a cup with a medium brew.

“He’s that guy who’s in here every fucking day, with the black hair, and he draws, and the pretty eyes, and that really cute forehead crease when he’s frustrated, and-” Frank cuts off with a groan when he sees that Ray isn’t even listening. He slumps across the counter, still staring at the stupid man. “Gerard’s going to be in here any moment, and he won’t have anywhere to sit,” he mumbles to himself, completely ignoring the fact that there are like 15 other tables in the café. The edge of the counter is jabbing painfully into his rib; he can’t even lay there comfortably without literally jumping, stupid fucking tiny body. He slides down with a dramatic sigh, earning a reproachful sideways look from Ray.

“Would you get back to work? Go clear tables or something.”

Frank kicks his shin on his way around the counter to gather empty. As he’s walking by Gerard’s usual table, his foot shoots out from under him, throwing a cascade of tepid leftover coffee onto the man sitting there.

“Oops,” Frank says in a monotone, dropping his tray onto the table and whipping out a rag. The man had leapt up just in the nick of time - well, in Frank’s view, that is. Meaning all of the liquid landed on his lap and not the chair, so Gerard won’t have a damp seat. The man snatches the rag, muttering curses as he stomps out the door, Frank watching him go with a smug smile.

“He stole my rag,” Frank whines to Ray over the counter, exchanging the tray of cups with another cloth.

“You poured coffee on him,” the other man says with a scolding tone.

“I slipped.”

“You’re a dweeb.”

Frank finishes tidying up the table as the bell above the door jingles. Trying to look like he’s not looking, Frank glances to see who came in, chest leaping when he spots the familiar white skin and black hair. Except this time he’s _wet_ and _holy sweet Jesus why can’t it rain more._

Taking a deep breath, Frank pretends like he’s not done cleaning the table, lingering until footsteps approach from behind him. A damp hoodie brushes across the back of his hand as Gerard slips by him to plop down in the seat Frank vacated with perfect timing. Gerard’s pale hands clutch protectively at his sketchbook as Frank gives a final swipe of his cloth, and throws a large, close-lipped smile at the other man. He carefully places his sketchbook on the table, flashing a dim smile in the direction of Frank’s chest, before Frank turns and trudges back to the counter.

Frank’s hands softly rubs the back of his other wrist as he complains to an indifferent Ray, “Why doesn’t he ever look at me? Like, he’s never made eye contact with me once, not in two fucking months? Do I, like, repel people?”

“You’re repelling customers, not doing a scrap of work,” Ray replies, shoving an empty cup into Frank’s arms.

“What the fuck do I do with this?” he asks.

“You fill it, dumbass,” Ray answers, “And stop swearing.”

Rolling his eyes at his friend’s back, Frank gets back to work, throwing furtive glances into the corner about every 30 seconds.

 

Frank has no more contact with Gerard besides exchanging money and a cup of coffee every day for another week. The next Monday, he decides to take a risk, the biggest risk he’s willing to make when it comes to Gerard. He’s absolutely frightened by the prospect of asking him out or even talking to him casually, so instead he fixes his coffee for him. Yes, obviously, Frank makes coffee for Gerard every day. And sometimes warms him a scone. Not always for charge.

But today Frank figures he’s seen Gerard pour his exact splash of half-and-half, ⅞ of a packet of Sugar in the Raw, and two hefty shakes of cinnamon (with exactly six stirs) to feel confident enough to recreate it himself.

So besides merely making his coffee to keep warm for when Gerard graces the shop with his presence, Frank fixes it up for him and forces himself to say the only sentence other than “hello” “what can I get you?” “anything else?” and either “$1.50” or “$2.50” (depending on whether it’s a sconeless day or not).

“I fixed it up for you today.”

A blush starts creeping onto Gerard’s face, so he quickly accepts the cup, says his usual “thank you” and retreats to his chair. Frank hopes that the grin staining Gerard’s face for the rest of the morning is a result of him and not whatever the fuck he’s drawing over there. What does he draw every day? And, does Gerard have a job? Because he certainly has a lot of money to spend on coffee, and a lot of free time to waste away lingering at the café.

Taking the smile as a good sign, Frank gets into the habit of fixing up Gerard’s coffee every day, and eventually Gerard stops asking, simply taking it after paying, always with a polite “thank you” and plopping down in this chair and pulling out his sketchbook and an array of pencils.

One day Frank takes the plunge of asking whether he actually makes the coffee well or Gerard is just insanely polite.

Gerard pauses for a moment, sucking his bottom lip into his mouth and staring at the counter where Frank’s inked fingers are drumming.

“It always tastes even better when you do it,” he replies very softly, blows once on the drink, and scuttles to his chair, a swooning Frank in his wake.

The next hour passes in a satisfied blur of Frank not paying attention to his work and instead paying attention to the way Gerard’s lip curls over the rim of his cup, and how fucking cute he looks concentrating with his tongue poking out the side of his mouth or when he shakes his soft hair out of his shining eyes.

 

\-----

 

“So when are you going to talk to him?” Ray asks casually one morning as he and Frank open up the shop.

“Absolutely never,” Frank instantly replies, pulling chairs off tables.

Ray scoffs loudly. “Come on, you’re the most outgoing person I know, and you’re over the moon for the guy.”

Frank turns a light shade of pink but doesn’t say anything further, praying it’s only apparent to Ray and not the entire world.

 

He goes over to another friend’s apartment that afternoon, since he had the early shift, eager to spend the rest of his Saturday in a haze of booze and cigarette smoke and gory movies.

“So you got have your eye on anyone special?” Mikey asks Frank after the beer has loosened his tongue a little. They’re friends from college, not super close, and most of their interactions involve cheap horror movies and smoking and Frank making a lot of coffee.

Frank’s heart stutters when Gerard crosses his mind. Mikey takes the silence as an affirmation, pressing on.

“So who is he?”

Frank lets out a puff of smoke.

“Just some guy. Um, I’ve never really talked to him before. But he comes into the café a lot,” he says, collapsing back onto the couch. “He’s so fucking pretty, Mikey.”

“Oh, that’s so adorable,” Mikey replies, poking Frank’s side. “What’s he look like?”

Frank gives a quick description of Gerard, trying his hardest not to go into a lot of detail because he doesn’t want to let on exactly how much he likes the guy.

“Why don’t you talk to him?” Mikey asks, a strange, faraway looks crossing his face.

“Because I’m shit with people and I’ll make a huge fool of myself.” Frank lights another smoke on the stub of his previous. “It’s not worth it.”

“You won’t even try?”

“It’s different for you, Mikey, with your whole quiet and mysterious thing, people are already impressed and intimidated by you. You talk to them once and they’re like ‘holy shit’. Then there’s me, who’s a clumsy nerd who can’t shut my mouth and it doesn’t ever go well for me,” Frank finishes, taking a deep breath and peering at Mikey over the rim of his bottle.

His friend sighs, running a hand over the close-cut hair on the side of his head. They sit in silence for a while, watching people being maimed on the television. Eventually, Mikey says he’s got to go get ready to meet his girlfriend, so Frank takes that as his cue to leave. As he’s walking out the door, Mikey calls after him, “Frankie, just...talk to him tomorrow? It doesn’t matter what. Just do it.”

Frank groans and doesn’t reply.

 

The next day is Sunday, and they’re swamped at the café as usual, so Frank can’t escape the counter for even two seconds. Gerard stays for a really short time, barely working on a sketch as he downs his drink, not even sparing a look in Frank’s direction as he drops his dirty cup at the counter, just like every other day. It always make Frank smile even more, since Gerard is literally the only customer to ever clean up after himself.

 

On Monday, Mikey texts Frank while he’s at work and says he’s going to drop by, which is odd because Frank can’t ever recall hanging out with Mikey other than at school or at either of their apartments with movies. Well, maybe that means they’re becoming better friends. Frank could use a friend besides Ray.

He finishes fixing up Mikey’s drink just as the familiar blonde head comes through the door, heading towards Frank, who introduces him to Ray. Mikey just lingers next to the counter, getting in the way. Frank doesn’t mind; Ray does.

Just before 10, the door opens, Frank glances hopefully towards it, and immediately bangs his head onto the counter with a large grin and red cheeks. He barely notices Mikey walk away from the counter as he turns to grab Gerard’s already-prepared coffee, still smiling as he hands it to Gerard, purposely brushing against his soft fingers. The other man has a tiny, lopsided grin, but still doesn’t look up at Frank before walking to his chair.

“Is that him?” Mikey asks from right next to Frank, causing him to leap and let out a little squeak. Mikey chuckles.

“Yeah, um, in the corner,” Frank says, staring dreamily over at Gerard.

Mikey lets out a real laugh this time, loud, and it’s the most emotion Frank has ever seen from the guy. Dumbfounded, he turns to look up at his friend, who merely leans down and whispers, “That’s my brother.”

And then he’s out the door before Frank can process it.

 

Mikey chuckles to himself all the way home. He had no idea that _Frank_ was the guy Gerard has the raging crush on. Then again, his brother never gave him any details other than the fact he works at the café Gerard goes to every day, he’s in love with the tattoos on his hands, and he has a smile that could cure cancer. Gerard doesn’t even know the guy’s name, for fuck’s sake. Mikey could immediately see from the way Gerard acted around Frank that he’s head-over-heels for him, and they only had about 15 seconds of interaction. Although it was so sweet how Frank already had Gerard’s order ready. They clearly have established some kind of routine. Definitely wordless, though, because Mikey doesn’t even have to ask to know that Gerard has never voluntarily said a single word to Frank (besides thanking him, because his brother is the most polite person Mikey’s ever met).

The TV is tuned to some horrible reality channel, which Mikey knows Gerard likes as white noise while he works, but, hey, Gerard’s out making moon eyes at Frank so he can watch whatever he wants. He ends up half-paying attention to an old episode of Supernatural while he thinks through how Gerard needs to get with with Frank, because honestly, his brother has been single since he was, like, 17 and it’s getting sad. Some people are married when they’re 26, and then there’s Gerard, who can’t even say two words to any man other than Mikey, and has a bedroom full of comics. It’s kind of funny in a pathetic way.

He knows if he tells Frank about Gerard’s feelings, then Gerard will get really angry and scared and probably never go back to the café and that would just fuck everything up. He also knows if he tells Gerard about Frank’s feelings, then it won’t matter because Gerard would just end up clamming up even more around him.

But Gerard needs to get laid, so Mikey really hopes that one of them makes a move soon.

At 1 o’clock he gets a call from Frank.

“Is your brother gay?” Frank says in lieu of a greeting.

Mikey pauses, unsure of exactly what he can tell Frank.

“He’s dated guys,” he replies vaguely, smiling at Frank’s faint “yes!” before continuing, “But if he’s interested in someone he won’t make a first move. At all. He’s so awkward. He’d literally need like a sign saying ‘Ask me out’.”

“Okay, awesome! Thank you so much!”

And Frank hangs up on a befuddled Mikey, wondering how in any way that’s cause for cheeriness.

 

Frank calls Ray next, who he knows works on Tuesdays, which is Frank’s day off.

“I’m coming in tomorrow,” he says.

“Tomorrow’s Tuesday,” Ray says in the patient voice he reserves for only Frank.

“I know dumbass, but I have a plan to get Gerard,” Frank replies excitedly. “Don’t come into work, and tell whoever else usually works Tuesday mornings not to come in. I’ll handle it, Tuesdays are slow days. Please?”

Ray sighs. “Don’t get yourself fired. Don’t cause bodily harm to any customers. Don’t burn down the building.”

“Oh my God, what kind of plan do you think I have?”

“Knowing you, Frank, I need to set those precautions.”

 

The next morning, Frank walks into work with a smug smile and a chalkboard under his arm.

 

An hour later, Gerard is a couple blocks away, walking at a crisp pace towards the coffee shop, wind tangling his unbrushed hair even more. When he enters the warm, familiar shop, the first thing he notices is a chalkboard propped up near the counter. He chuckles as he reads it: **“Today your barista is 1. Hella fucking gay. 2. Desperately single. For your drink today I recommend: You give me your number.”**

_It’s a shame that the really hot guy who always makes the perfect coffee isn’t working today,_ Gerard thinks, heading up to the counter, eyes still on the sign. He does notice on the little guy doodled next to the words there is something scribbled on the neck, just like the barista’s scorpion Gerard admires so often. It’s probably an accident.

When Gerard glances up to order, he stops breathing. Leaning against the counter, black hair perfectly mussed, piercings catching the soft morning light, gorgeously inked hands clutching a steaming cup, is him.

_He’s not supposed to be here._ Gerard doesn’t even have his sketchbook today, like any other Tuesday and alternating Fridays (the days the guy doesn’t work), intending to just grab his caffeine fix and head back to his apartment to work. And then with a horrible sinking feeling, Gerard realises what he looks like; sporting an impressive bedhead, an old t-shirt riddled with holes, sweatpants with some suspicious stains, and not a scrap of his usual eyeliner. _Oh shit oh shit oh shit. Why today._

But then Gerard remembers the doodled tattoo on the chalkboard, and the fact that there’s nobody else working that morning. There’s such a low chance that a guy so utterly perfect would be interested in an awkward geek like himself, but if it fails, he can just go hide under his covers for all of eternity.

 

“Anything else I can get you?” Frank asks Gerard as he fumbles for his money. Like _your number you dork_. He saw Gerard read the sign as he came in, how much more fucking obvious can he get?

To Frank’s utter dismay, Gerard simply pays and then asks, “Could I get it to-go?”

Frank’s heart drops to his small intestine as he tips the coffee into another cup, snapping the lid on. Gerard’s never gotten it to-go before, which means he won’t stay. And Frank would really love if he stayed today, considering that he’s never seen Gerard as hot as he looks today. He did notice that Gerard is without his sketchbook, so he probably has somewhere to be. Maybe his mysterious job that he never goes to.

After he hands over the drink, Frank slumps down under the counter with his head in his hands, not even wanting to watch Gerard walk out. If any customers come (which at the moment there literally is not one other than Gerard) he’ll hear the bell on the door.

He tries not to let a tear squeeze out of his eye as he realises that even though Gerard is interested in guys, and he _literally had a sign telling him to give him his number_ and Gerard acted absolutely the same way as he has for the last three months. Today would have been the most perfect day for him to make a move; they’re absolutely alone, and it would be so easy for Frank to just get his hand down those sweatpants instead of Gerard’s usual jeans.

About 20 minutes later the door chimes, so Frank pokes his head out over the counter to see who came in. He’s only met with the sight of Gerard’s receding back. _Fuck._

“He stayed here that whole fucking time?” Frank screams out to the empty café, standing up so he can ram his fist into the wall. He throws himself over the counter feet-first, which isn’t exactly the best idea, since he finds himself a moment later sprawled out painfully across the floor. Whatever. He stalks over to the chalkboard on which he spent so long figuring out what to write, slashes his sleeve over it so the words and drawing are ruined. Frank chucks it behind the counter and is about to follow suit with his own body when something catches his eye. Across the café, illuminated slightly by the window, Gerard’s to-go cup sits on his table, almost expectantly. Frank’s eyes almost pop out of his head as he moves closer, taking in the fact that the entire outside is covered with drawings that certainly weren’t there before. With a glance over his shoulder to make sure there aren’t any customers coming in, Frank dashes over to the cup, spinning it gleefully in his hands, awestruck by the talent exerted in just 20 minutes of doodles. _On a fucking coffee cup._ It consists of a few different scenes, involving a significant amount of blood and creatures, some of which Frank recognizes from movies or comics, and some that have apparently sprung from Gerard’s own head. Holding the cup like it’s a newborn baby, Frank collapses into Gerard’s chair memorizing the breathtaking pen strokes until the door jingles and he’s forced to get up and actually do what he’s being payed to do.

When the shift ends, Frank carefully collects Gerard’s cup. He’s on his way out the door when he slips (what a surprise, he’s the clumsiest person he knows) and drops the cup. As its rolling away, Frank notices some words scribbled on the bottom. Heart hammering, he grabs the cup and reads what Gerard wrote: _“10 o’clock tomorrow”._

“FUCK YES!” Frank hollers into the air, punching a fist into the air and leaping around in the road, earning some very concerned looks from passersby. He even hears one old man say “Goddamn punk.”

 

\-----

 

At 9:58 Gerard is paused outside the door, breathing labored, running his hands over and over his hair, fingers grabbing at the too-long sleeves of his sweater, quickly checking his eyeliner in the reflection of his phone screen. Taking one last deep breath, he pushes his shoulders back, trying to exert as much confidence as he can before shoving open the door.

Immediately he sees that the adorable tattooed barista isn’t behind the counter, and his shoulders slump dejectedly. He didn’t come in today. He’s never missed a day of work as long as Gerard’s been coming here. He knows he has to have seen the cup, which means in order to not be here, he saw the note and purposely is avoiding Gerard. With a groan, Gerard slumps over to the counter. Before he reaches it, however, he glances over to his chair, and has to cling onto the edge of the counter to keep upright in his astonishment. Someone has pulled another chair over to his usual table and is clutching two cups of steaming coffee. Someone with a hell of a lot of phenomenal tattoos curling up his arms and down onto his hands. Hands that Gerard would know anywhere, given his extreme shyness and inability to make eye contact with the guy, so he always ends up looking down at his hands. Reminding himself how to walk, Gerard lifts his chin and shuffles across the café. When he reaches the table, he sees the guy smile in his peripheral vision, but is too entranced by his tattoos to even acknowledge anything else. He’s a fucking artist for a living; what else would happen when he sees art he likes.

The tattoos shift as the other guy pushes one of the coffees across the table at Gerard, who accepts it and then remembers how to blink. It’s the perfect temperature; he takes a few long sips as he waits for the other guy to talk first. He sure as hell isn’t going to.

 

Frank mirrors Gerard’s action, taking a large gulp of his drink, barely tasting it. He can’t believe he’s _sitting at a table with the guy he’s been crushing on for three months_. He waits for Gerard to start a conversation, since he’s absolutely positive that if he tries to talk he’ll either 1) blurt out something really weird 2) or not shut up for like an hour straight.

He is content just sitting and admiring Gerard. Frank thought he couldn’t get any more attractive after yesterday, well, today with effortlessly soft hair, a giant fuzzy sweater, and the way the sunlight catches his lined eyes, turning them a rich golden colour, Frank finds himself feeling dead wrong. It’s also extremely unfair that someone can be really hot and really adorable at the same time.

Gerard just keeps his gaze trained downwards, hands twisting with each other or drumming on the table when he’s not clutching his mug like it’s his lifeline. Each time Frank gets an urge to speak, the words can’t finish travelling up his throat, so he instead just takes another drink. He really should have spiked his coffee if he knew it was going to be like this.

Frank’s reaching the end of his coffee and he’s really starting to freak out, since he’s about to lose his excuse to stay quiet. From a glance down, he notices that his heart is beating so hard he can physically see his chest pounding, which just causes him to become more agitated, and his heart beats harder. Stupid fucking anxiety. He folds his arms up, fingernails digging into his skin, unfolds them, looks intently out of the window, stretches his arms upwards with a deep breath.

 

Gerard chokes on his mouthful of coffee and nearly dumps the rest of it on his lap when the guy across the table stretches, revealing a strip of stomach covered in swirls of black ink, which is quickly covered again as the guy’s arms bang onto the table and he leans concernedly towards Gerard.

“Are you alright?” he asks softly. Gerard nods vigorously, wiping the back of his mouth with his too-long sleeve.

The guy turns around when a voice calls across the café, “Hey, Frank! I need you back over here!” It’s the other barista, the one with a lot of hair that Gerard has never talked to.

“Okay,” the guy - _Frank_ \- replies, standing up. He hesitates for a moment, peering down at Gerard, whose gaze is firmly fixed on Frank’s left bicep. “I, um...I guess, don’t worry about paying. I’ll see you tomorrow?”

Gerard nods vigorously again, mentally punching himself repeatedly as Frank walks away, sliding on a hoodie and his apron.

Why the fuck doesn’t that boy wear short sleeves more holy shit.

Why the fuck didn’t he speak to him at all? He initiated the meeting, and the sat there like a absolute walnut and practically ignored Frank the entire time. He’s always known he’s awkward and shy, but this is a new low.

Gerard lets out a low groan, head banging onto the table, rattling his mug in the saucer. Frank’s not even going to want to talk to him again; if he was attracted to Gerard at all at first the feelings are certainly eradicated by now. He doesn’t dare glance up as he drops the empty cup off at the counter and slumps out the door. Why did he have to ruin fucking everything.

 

Frank can’t believe he’s thinking this but he’s glad Ray rescued him from the quagmire of awkward over in the corner. His co-worker shoots him a pitying look and doesn’t mention Gerard for the rest of the shift. Not like he’s ever talked about him anyway.

He had the perfect opportunity to get to know Gerard, but he absolutely wrecked it. Gerard probably thinks he’s some kind of weirdo now. Why did he have to fucking ruin everything.

 

Frank spends his evening in a cloud of smoke, filling a notecard with a list of conversation topics for tomorrow morning. A repeat of today is not going to fucking happen.

 

At 9 o’clock Thursday morning, Frank fixes up two coffees, tells an indignant Ray to cover for him, and heads over to the corner table, dragging another chair over and waits, staring at the door. The notecard digs into his palm as he focuses on staying calm and remembering to breathe. An hour later, Frank has accidentally drunk his own coffee and Gerard’s is getting too cold, so he runs back over to the counter to prepare two more. He’s sure that Gerard will come through the door any minute; he wants to be ready.

By 10:30, Frank’s getting a little concerned. There’s only been a handful of times that Gerard was this late, but there’s still time.

Whenever that bell above the door rings, Frank’s heart stutters and his eyes flick upwards, but within a second his shoulders slump again.

As the clock ticks to 11:15, Ray carefully approaches the table, laying a light hand on Frank’s arm as he says comfortingly, “Come on, Frankie. There’s always tomorrow.”

_No there’s not,_ Frank wants to scream, _Gerard’s never missed a day and this can’t be a coincidence. I turned everything to shit._

After smashing three cups and getting too many orders wrong, he’s told to go home early, where he just collapses on the couch and stews with his misery, several beers, and _Halloween I_ and _II._

For the first time in a long while, Frank doesn’t jack off thinking about Gerard; he just flops into bed, rolls over, and goes to sleep.

 

Friday morning, Frank drives to work with glumness practically radiating off of him. He’s resigned himself to the fact that Gerard won’t be coming back anymore, not bothering to look decent in the least. His body runs on autopilot the entire morning, taking and making orders without even thinking about it. Honestly, it’s the best work Frank’s done since he got this job.

The door chimes and Frank flumps over to the register, beginning his monotonous greeting, “Hi, what can I get y-”

He cuts off with a tiny shriek when he looks up at the customer and meets a pair of exquisite golden eyes, peering nervously at Frank through thick lashes. Frank is paralyzed, mouth hanging open, half a breath in his lungs. He remembers a quote he read somewhere, something like “Eye contact is way more intimate than words”, and suddenly really understands the quote. A sentence tries to escape but Frank ends up just coughing because _Gerard’s eyes Gerard’s eyes Gerard’s eyes he’s making eye contact holy shit he’s here he’s here he came back and Frank doesn’t have his drink ready._ Realising the last part, Frank turns around, mentally freaking out, dashing around to prepare two coffees. When he slides around the counter and barely prevents himself from face-planting on to Gerard’s shoes, he hears a really light laugh. Gerard takes one the cup Frank holds out, biting his lip to refrain from laughing harder. Frank sets his cup on the counter to take his apron off, throwing it behind the counter. He takes a deep breath and a step forward, leading Gerard silently towards the corner, running through his list of conversation topic as he walks. In his radiant haze, Frank plops himself right down into Gerard’s chair.

He realises about five seconds later, and is about to leap up when Gerard settles himself right next to Frank in the chair. It’s a really big chair and Gerard and Frank are both small people, but regardless, they end up squashed right next to each other and Frank can’t breathe again. Gerard lays his sketchbook on the table, ignoring Frank, flipping through it.

“I, um, drew this,” he says quietly, the first full sentence Frank has ever heard him utter.

Hands shaking, Frank accepts the sketchbook and becomes lightheaded, knuckles on his left hand turning white as he tries to process the image in front of him. His mouth opens and closes a few times, brain not even recalling any words Frank can even say. Gerard has produced, from memory, after seeing them _once_ , a flawless recreation of the tattoos on both of Frank’s arms. Frank suddenly doesn’t care about the other day, about the fact that Gerard didn’t talk to him or look at him. Nobody has ever done something like this for him before. He becomes hyper-aware of Gerard’s leg pressing onto his, the soft breath tickling his neck. It would be so, so easy to just turn his head and kiss Gerard, but Frank can’t find the strength in himself to do it.

“Is it okay?” Gerard asks quietly, self-consciously, evidently noticing Frank’s silence.

Frank swallows hardly. The words still don’t come. Instead, he slowly spins his head towards Gerard’s, nodding, a colossal grin splitting his face. Gerard smiles in reply, a crooked, hesitant smile. His head shifts ever-so-slightly forward, and Frank freaks out. Quickly turning back to the table with a pounding chest, he gestures to the sketchbook.

“Can I?” he asks, thumb scraping the edges of the rest of the pages.

A dark flush immediately blankets Gerard’s face but he nods, covering his mouth with a hand. Frank sucks his lip ring into his mouth as he turns back one page, letting out a squeak as he sees a profile drawing of himself. A few more pages catch his eye: similar drawings, all of himself, some of him working, or just his face close up.

Unable to form a coherent thought, Frank barely has to turn his head to catch Gerard’s mouth in a kiss. It’s sloppy and heavy and Frank can taste coffee and smoke and morning and a hint of jam and Frank is intoxicated, begging for more, swiping his tongue easily into Gerard’s mouth, who just melts into Frank, tangling his hand into his hair, other hand slipping softly under Frank’s shirt. Frank lets out a gasp as Gerard maneuvers himself so he’s half on his lap, legs straddling Frank’s right leg, thigh pressing where Frank can feel himself getting hard. Gerard rocks himself into Frank, pressing into Frank’s leg, pulling hard at Frank’s hair, sucking at his lip ring, eliciting a series of tiny groans. One of Frank’s hand slides through Gerard’s hair lightly as he uses the other to run up Gerard’s leg, grabbing at his inner thigh, and Gerard’s physical reaction is almost immediate.

“Fuckfuckfuckfuckfuck,” Frank hisses as Gerard’s mouth moves on to his neck, caressing the image on his skin before moving lower and biting down, sucking at the tender skin. Frank’s fingers drag over the front of Gerard’s pants, palming him, and he’s a millisecond away from unzipping them when he suddenly remembers they’re _in public, at Frank’s work_.

Gasping, Frank pushes Gerard away, almost toppling him off the chair. His leg slides out from under the other man, both sets of hands retracting as their breathing slowly returns to normal. Frank stands, smoothing down his shirt and hair as Gerard follows suit. Their eyes meet again.

“Hi,” Frank sighs with a shy smile, “I’m Frank.”

“I’m Gerard.” He giggles. “It’s really nice to meet you.”

  
  


**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading :) I'd love to know what you think, this is my first fic and I'm kind of nervous.
> 
> xoclaire
> 
> Translated into Russian [here!](https://ficbook.net/readfic/6233009)


End file.
